Sun and Moon
by Blancwene
Summary: After so many things have gone wrong, can Faramir and Éowyn finally get one thing right? A very twisted AU. Chapter 5 now up!
1. Prologue

_"It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it_ _comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I_ _could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the   
__same hand drew us back."_ _"Alas, not me, lord!" she said. "Shadow lies on me still."_   
~The Return of the King   
~*~**~*~   
**Sun and Moon**   
She stood before him, an image of grace and beauty in the midst of unending sorrow. Years ago, he had called her the White Lady of Rohan, pale as a lily but cold as frost. He remembered her standing on the eastward wall of the Houses of Healing, her golden hair tangled in the wind and her grey eyes hinting of pain concealed behind her lovely face.   
Today, she was dressed in black. Those desperate eyes were hidden behind a thick veil; the yellow richness of her braids had become marred by a few grey strands. Yet his words remained true. There was wisdom in the lines by her eyes and the creases around her mouth; but he still thought her beautiful. He had once said that Éowyn was fairer than the women of Gondor, and he firmly believed it. None could rival her elegance, her courage, or her compassion. She was perfect.   
She held a young boy's hand, and watched the proceedings with composed attention. The King had died five days ago, attacked by orcs on Rohan's borders. Threats of danger still remained after Sauron's defeat, but many people had forgotten the meaning of tragedy in recent years. His death had reminded them all that evil was still present in the world.   
Éowyn squeezed the child's hand tighter as the coffin passed. Her son was also clad in black, his father's eyes filled with tears in his mother's china-fair face. His hair was raven, unlike his mother's kin, but in many respects he was more like Théoden and Thengel of old than his Númenorean ancestors. He knew that the boy would be brave, a true hero in the tales of ancient times. With Éowyn Nimhíril as his mother, the child was destined for nothing less than greatness.   
Faramir shifted his white Steward's rod to the other hand, and tried to pry his gaze away from her and back to the proceedings. He could not. Even in dark dress, she was as captivating as of old. Clothed in white, she gleamed like the radiant sun, a symbol of purity and power. But in black, her beauty was subtler- dimmed, but not extinguished. A figure of lamentation, with hints of brilliancy escaping from beneath the shroud of mourning.   
He had loved her then, pitying her grief; he loved her even more now, when she seemed weighed down with innumerable troubles. Her misery added a weight to her attraction that he had never felt before.   
She turned away from the funeral, and approached him slowly. Suffering was etched in her patient face; Faramir felt his heart ache. She dipped her head gravely in greeting. "Lord Faramir."   
"Milady."   
She dabbed at reddened eyes, and tugged gently on her son's hand. "Anardil needs to return to the Citadel. I hope my presence will not be missed."   
He shook his head. "No, milady. This is not a place for children."   
She glided off towards the White Tower, and he sighed. He loved Éowyn as much as he had during the War of the Ring.   
But she was the Queen of Gondor. And the King Elessar, her husband of seventeen years, had died less than a week ago. She could never return his affections. Her heart had been taken before he ever had a chance. _tbc_


	2. Chapter 1

  
_Faramir studied the horizon as he stood on the eastward wall, the chill wind blowing from the North. In spite of his warm raiment and thick cloak, it was cold. Mist lingered in the mountains ahead, and he shivered as the darkness approached. The Captains of the West should have reached the Black Gate by then; who knew what horrors awaited them there? Had the last Kings of Gondor and Rohan gone to their doom?_   
_He dismissed those despairing thoughts, and turned to look at Éowyn. Her hair streamed in the wind like a herald's bright banner, but her face was hard as stone. She trembled beneath the heavy mantle he had brought her. Did she feel it too? The sense that they had come to the end of days?_   
_She twisted her neck and peered up at him, her eyes glinting keenly. "What is it? What troubles you, my lord?"_   
_"Great evil is on the move. I can feel it. But think not evil of me, if I say-"_   
_"Lord Faramir!"_   
_He stopped; the Warden was walking towards him, a hooded stranger following but a few footsteps behind._   
_"My lord, Lord Elrond of Rivendell wishes to speak with you. He has grievous news for the Lord Elfstone, but since the host has departed he has asked to speak with the Steward of the City."_   
_Faramir dismissed him with a sign, and bowed in greeting to the other man. Few had been the fair folk who had graced Minas Tirith with their presence; only desperate business drove them from their enclaves in Lórien and Rivendell, and their harbors near the Sea. He studied the Elf, seeing anguish in his ageless face but nothing more. "What news do you bring from the North, Lord Elrond?"_   
_"A saddening tale. I had hoped to speak with Lord Aragorn, but I see he has quitted the City. Arwen Undómiel, my daughter and the Lord Aragorn's betrothed, has died."_   
_Éowyn let out an audible gasp, then composed herself. "How?"_   
_"Too many troubles were pressing upon the Lady Arwen: worry for the Lord Aragorn's safety, distress for the pain her marriage would cause her kin, despair for the fate of mortal men. But it was this growing darkness that broke her. She could not survive in a world of such evil."_   
_Faramir shook his head. "Words cannot express the sorrow I feel at her parting. I am sorely grieved. I will tell Lord Aragorn of her passing when the Company returns- if it returns."_   
_The Elf bowed obeisance, and disappeared into the gloom like a wraith on wings. Faramir glanced at Éowyn again, and was surprised to note that she seemed hopeful and even.content. She smiled as she leaned out over the wall. "Distressing, my lord. What will become of us if even elven blood can wane under the Shadow's curse?"_   
_"I know not. The Lord Aragorn will be heart-broken to hear of his betrothed's death."_   
_"Yes," she replied, straining as she glanced about the fields where she had fought days ago. "But hope still remains. Hope that Mordor will be defeated, and good will once again prevail."_   
_"Yes, hope. What do you hope for, lady?"_   
_She looked at him steadily, and her eyes were kind and pitying. She spoke slowly. "That these lands will be free, and that all I have dreamed of will come to be true. If you will excuse me, my lord, I must return to my room."_   
_He remained at the walls some time, long after Éowyn had left, and watched as the light returned and Anduin's waters glistened in the sun's triumphant rays. Joy leapt into his heart, for he knew that the Shadow was gone; but disappointment still lurked, and regret. If Lady Arwen was dead, then Isildur's heir must find a new bride. Who better than the White Lady of Rohan? Beautiful and brave, she was a daughter of queens- perhaps even destined to be one herself._   
_He stood alone, while the City burst into celebration. He loved her; he had been prepared to tell her, before the Warden interrupted with this misfortune._   
_Could he see her married to another man?_   
~*~**~*~   
Faramir had witnessed many funerals in his lifetime, but the burial of King Elessar was undoubtedly the most distressing. The Lord Elfstone had not yet reached middle age; who decided that his life should be ended? Was it the will of the Valar, or a vestige of Sauron's evil that dictated that the King should be killed?   
Elessar had left two children behind: Anardil, his heir, who was barely ten years of age, and the infant Míriel. His son was not old enough to reign; Faramir must serve as the Ruling Steward until the boy ascended the throne at his majority. But that was in at least ten years time. He had no great desire to govern. Need dictated that he comply with his duty, and he would obey. However much he might dislike the power and authority he would wield.   
This was his responsibility. If Aragorn had not taken the crown, he would have still sat in the Citadel as Denethor's heir. It was his right, and his doom, as a descendent of Mardil. His feelings could not alter his heritage in any way.   
Faramir glanced up at the White Tower, trying to spot Éowyn as she returned to the only home she had left. Nothing. In the mass of black-clad people lining the walls, it was difficult to pick out even one familiar figure. Her misery was especially piercing, for he knew she felt responsible for her husband's death.   
Returning from Lake Evendim in Eriador, she had suggested a route that skirted the River Entwash. The King had disagreed, believing a different course should be taken, but Éowyn was persuasive. Elessar had ridden ahead, to protect his Queen, and had been ambushed by a group of fugitive orcs at the Mering Stream. None of that company had survived.   
There had been little love in her marriage. She had wedded the King, wishing for renown. She had found only pity, for Elessar's beloved was gone from mortal lands. Éowyn was merely the second-best, and as her eyes were opened to the truth she withdrew into herself. Her beauty muted, it was like the radiance of the sun had become veiled in mist and confusion. She was not meant for the life she had chosen.   
She had realized her mistake: glory can never take the place of sincere affection. But too late. She endured her pain, and tried to maintain a semblance of her old fire. Many had never discerned the troubles in her relationship.   
But Faramir had. It was not meant to be this way. She had been his comfort in the Houses of Healing, and he owed his recovery partially to her. He could not forget her, for he was haunted by those hopeless grey eyes that still spoke as keenly as they had eighteen years ago. The ancient tales told of the despair the Three Houses felt towards the fate of men, and he recognized that same emotion in Éowyn's restless gaze.   
Two strange voices wrenched his attention back to his surroundings. "Faramir! Ha, look Merry, I win!"   
"Pip, you're being impolite."   
"Oh, I am dreadfully apologetic, Master Merry the Magnificent. I will now use his proper title. But I still spotted him first."   
"That's only because you cheated. I was still paying reverent attention to Strider's funeral. This is a sad time, you know."   
"Yes, yes. But you never said we had to wait to start finding him. Lord Faramir! Can't he hear us?"   
Faramir fought down a smile as he walked towards the impatient hobbits. "The whole City could hear you, Peregrin Took."   
Pippin grinned. "I have a title now. Didn't you hear that Strider-"   
"King Elessar," Merry corrected."   
"Please excuse my fastidious friend, Lord Faramir. I became the Took and Thain. And Strider made me a Counselor of the North-kingdom. Thus, I am more important than the unfortunate Meriadoc Brandybuck."   
Merry made a face. "And you tend to forget the fact that I am also a 'Counselor of the North-kingdom.' As is Sam. That makes us equals, you silly hobbit."   
"Was there any particular reason why the Periannath wished to speak with me?"   
Pippin nodded. "Of course. I wanted to tell you that little Faramir Took is doing very well. I'm trying to convince Diamond that 'Boromir' will be a lovely name for our next child."   
"But you know Diamond will never go along with that," Merry stated. "The only reason Di let you pick Faramir's name was so you'd finally stop gabbing about your adventures in Gondor. I know from a highly reliable source that she wants to name the baby after her father."   
"What? I'm not having a son named Mungo! 'Tis madness."   
Faramir shook his head. "Thank you for the intriguing halfling news. Anything of greater importance that you wanted to speak with me of?"   
"Um.yes," Merry said sheepishly. "Pip and I were wondering if we could go visit the Queen Éowyn. We thought we'd cheer her up. And besides, I wanted to see baby Míriel again. Is that acceptable?"   
"I believe so. She has returned to the Citadel with Anardil, so you will find her there."   
Pippin's expression turned grave. "Thank you. I still can't believe Strider's gone, though. I mean."   
Merry elbowed him. "Let's get going. Thank you for your time, Lord Faramir. We will now undertake a valiant mission to make Queen Nimhíril temporarily happy. And hopefully, we shall succeed."   
Faramir tried not to laugh as their small figures retreated out of his vision. Halflings were certainly odd creatures. But at least they had lifted his mood, if only for a few minutes. _tbc_


	3. Chapter 2

  
Éowyn hated the White Tower. Inside, she felt trapped, caged. It had been built for protection, true; but its aloofness from the rest of the City bothered her. At Edoras, only a few steps from the Golden Hall brought her to cottages and people- and life. In Minas Tirith, she had to pass between gates and guards before even reaching the outside world.   
And even then, she felt cut off and isolated. She was the Queen of Gondor. She was always treated with extreme honor and respect, but she had never found a friend. Someone she could speak with truthfully, someone who bypassed courtesies and formalities, and only offered closeness. She had found such a person once, but-   
She rejected such ideas, and turned towards the window. The sun shone high above her, warming rays that refreshed her body but not her heart. It glowed a vibrant gold in the pale blueness of the sky, and the City glinted pure white in its beams. Minas Tirith had been originally named Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun; and she saw the Númenoreans' inspiration in the City's afternoon splendor.   
Sounds wafted up to her from below: trumpets, cries, millions of noisy feet. And two very familiar voices.   
"Pip! What are you doing?"   
"Picking Éowyn a bouquet."   
"That's very thoughtful and all, but should you really yank scarlet blossoms out of someone else's pot?"   
"Oh. Probably not. How could I survive without you, Merry?"   
"You wouldn't. You would've been eaten by orcs or stomped by ents or something."   
"How pleasant. What a loving friend."   
"I do my best."   
Smiling in spite of herself, Éowyn left the hall, opened the door, and ran down the stairs to greet them. "Master Holdwine and Thain Peregrin!"   
Pippin blushed. "Oh, Your Highness, how could we come to this noble City and not pay you a visit?" He offered her his stolen flowers, bowing rather gracefully.   
Merry sighed. "Queen Éowyn, may I inquire into the health of your children?"   
"They are quite well," she said, sniffing the spray carefully. "Thain Peregrin, where did you acquire such beautiful blooms? These are _carandols_. Surely they do not flourish in the land of the Halflings."   
He grimaced. "You are correct, milady. I picked them for you by the shores of the Anduin."   
"He's lying," Merry interjected. "He pinched them from a vacant house."   
"What a wonderful friend."   
Éowyn's smile spread to her eyes, and she motioned towards the younger hobbit. "They are certainly lovely. Would you please enter? I am sure you would prefer to speak indoors rather than remain standing in the daytime heat."   
She led them up the steps, and they filed silently around Míriel's cradle. "She's precious," Merry whispered. "So little, and yet so fair."   
The infant was fast asleep, her head covered by soft blonde down and her thick lashes brushing against rosy cheeks. But when awake, those small lids opened to reveal clear blue eyes- the same shade as her great-uncle Théoden's had been. When she had been born near the shores of Nenuial, Aragorn had named her Míriel- "Jewel-star"- for her curious eyes that gleamed like the light of Eärendil. In her heart, Éowyn had given her daughter a name in her native tongue- Leohta, or _light._   
But unlike Anardil, tiny Míriel would grow up without any memories of her father. She would never know the man who christened her and quieted her screams in the stillness of the night. She would hear stories and gain an incomplete image of King Elessar Telcontar, but never truly understand him. It was an upsetting realization, that her daughter would never appreciate one who had truly loved her.   
For Aragorn had fostered an affection for his children that Éowyn believed was stronger than the feelings he had felt towards his wife. He had instructed Anardil in the ways of the Dunédain, and cared for newborn Míriel with attentiveness and tenderness. His offspring had given him hope- that the Fourth Age would pass in peace and prosperity, without the bleakness of the Shadow's curse. By nurturing them and helping them grow, he was setting them on the path towards a bright future and a clear dawn.   
"Merry and I have a plan-" Pippin began, hesitantly.   
She looked up from her musings. "Yes?"   
"Well, to ensure that our families always stay together. Can't have the Tooks and Brandybucks splitting apart, now. So I was thinking that my son Faramir should marry little Éowyn Brandybuck. When they're old enough, of course."   
A strange thought jolted through her, and she eyed the hobbits keenly. "Any other reasons why?"   
"I was just thinking. . .um. . ." Merry mumbled. "When you think about it. . .they sound so nice together!"   
"What?"   
"Their names. Faramir and Éowyn. I think they have a nice ring, don't you think so, Pip?"   
"Oh yes. Perfection."   
Éowyn rose to her full height, and glared at them imperiously. "I thank you for your kind intentions, but I must be retiring. If you will excuse me?"   
Pippin frowned. "But it's not even supper yet! Sunset isn't for several hours. Perhaps-"   
"I have gently asked you to leave. Now I am afraid I must order you. Master Holdwine and Thain Peregrin, this conversation has ended. I have things I must deal with. Good day."   
She watched the very troubled pair exit, and hurried away to her chambers. Throwing off her veil, she raised her hands to her face to stop the torrent of tears, but they still came. She stopped before her window, sinking to her knees, and let her self-control crumble as the drops trickled down her cheeks, stinging and burning as they fell. The sun still shone outside, but she did not notice it. The only thing she paid heed to was her emotions; she felt as though her heart was close to breaking. She wished she were dead.   
She could never remarry. She could not dare to imagine experiencing this torment again.   
She remained kneeling as light disappeared below the horizon and the twinkling stars of twilight appeared. Their cold glow mocked her and seemed to taunt her with all she had lost. Night succeeded day, with memories she could never forget.   
Memories she did not want to lose.   


~*~**~*~

  
_The City was shrouded in the silence and splendor of twilight. Éowyn heard his footsteps approaching, but did not turn- ever gazing out over the quietness of a slumbering kingdom. The soft shuffle of his boots slowed, then seemed to pause, and she lifted her head to see him leaning against the wall, his eyes lacking their usual intensity. She sighed._   
_"It seems entirely different, covered in blackness."_   
_"Yes. Only in the light of Anor is its beauty revealed. Forgive me if I speak hastily, but-"_   
_"Please, not now."_   
_His face was illuminated in the moonshine, and she examined it carefully, almost affectionately. Faramir had an air about him that she almost could not describe- nobility, mixed with some alluring mystery. He had the bearing of a king, but unlike the warriors of Rohan he did not delight in the spoils of war. He was not lacking in courage or honor, and yet he was learned; this combination of soldier and scholar, hero and healer, confused her at times. Set apart from the men of Gondor and her own land- but that was not what frightened her._   
_She was scared of her heart. She still felt herself drawn to this man, despite her excuses and illogical reasoning. As she watched him intently, his dark hair glinting in gloaming's dim glow, she felt content just standing in his presence. But those acute grey eyes must not discover her uncertainty. She brought her attention back to the tiny rooftops and began to speak._   
_"King Elessar's coronation went well."_   
_"People came from as far as Belfalas to observe the ceremony. They all love him."_   
_"As they should. Is he not their ruler, their lord? A true King reigns not because he has gained control by force of arms, but because his subjects adore him."_   
_He shifted towards her. "But adoration has several different meanings. It is the respect a young man feels for his captain, or a servant feels for his lord. But it is also greater. A feeling that leads to union and completeness. Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?"_   
_"I wish to be loved by another."_   
_"But that is not what you feel for him. Are my words true?"_   
_"I know his heart does not belong to me. The one who holds his esteem is now walking in the lands of her kindred." She felt him move closer, but did not look up at him. She could not bear the scrutiny of those eyes. "I have always desired renown. An existence grander than that set before me. A life with King Elessar would give me such glory. It is a marriage of convenience; nothing more."_   
_She glanced at him again, and was surprised by the change in his expression. Something raged beneath his surface, a barely controlled flame of emotion. Anger? His lips pressed into a thin line, he seemed to be fighting an internal battle against himself. "Such words are folly."_   
_"It is my only chance to fulfill my fantasies!"_   
_"Castles in the air. Wishes that will dissolve as quickly as the mist on a summer day. Éowyn, you cannot take on Arwen's role any more than the Sun and Moon can exchange places in the heavens. The gods have set forth our doom. Any attempts to alter our destiny will only result in bitter troubles. Some things were meant to be."_   
_"It is not my fate to remain in a simple town when a position of power has been set before me. I will not rot and decay in a fading realm, set behind bars like a treasure on display."_   
_His whisper was almost inaudible, and she strained to hear it. "You will be forever remembered for your stand on Pelennor Fields, by Rohan and Gondor alike. Obscurity will never take hold of you. But despair may, if you do not follow your heart."_   
_She frowned. "What does it matter? I would rather allow my deeds to be preserved in history than let myself be diminished for any man's sake."_   
_He did not reply. She twisted around, trying to gain a view of his face, and she caught a glimpse of his eyes. They shone softly, and yet that keenness still remained, insight that understood her soul better than she knew herself. They radiated concern, even protectiveness. She could not turn away, only continue staring into those pale depths. "I do not want your pity."_   
_He took her face in his hands and smiled faintly. "I know. But that is not all I offer you."_   
_Faramir bent down and kissed her. Éowyn's cheeks flushed and her mind reeled, but she could not break away. Some part of her was pleased by his audacity; with his lips pressed against hers, her thoughts ran together into incomprehensibility and she made no effort to move out of his embrace. She was so disorientated, and yet strangely blissful. Her heart pounded in her ears, her throat burned, her lungs felt empty- he pulled back and she staggered a few steps away, blinking dazedly._   
_She attempted to gather the pieces of her shattered senses and fit them back together, struggling against emotions that threatened to take hold of her. "I.I cannot hide behind deceit. I do love you. But.but I will not be dissuaded. I want glory and fame more than anything else; I want to be Queen. I am sorry.I must leave."_   
_She hurried away, not daring to look back. She could not bear his disappointment and pain. She could barely handle her own._ _tbc_


	4. Chapter 3

  
The stars shone brightly, clear gems in the never-ending backdrop of night. The air was crisp and sweet, as befitting a March evening; Faramir, Steward of Gondor, could not sleep. For the past few weeks his slumbering hours had been possessed by old visions- his first dream, of the great wave rolling over Númenor in the West, and then others of the War of the Ring. The stench of battle, bodies piled around him, while men groaned in agony, dying in a field of blood. Nazgûl on hideous steeds, swooping low as their unsettling cries echoed across the plains. And now, after Elessar's funeral, came a persistent nightmare: his fevered days in the House of Healing, time spent wandering through a senseless world of shadows. He stumbled aimlessly in confusion and despair, yet now there was no cure. The King lay near the banks of the Anduin, his hands lifeless and dead.   
He needed rest and solitude. So he took to the streets of Minas Tirith, pacing out his worries in the stillness after midnight. He walked past empty shops and shuttered houses, focusing on the mundane, unnecessary details about him. He had never realized before that the wall outside the Fourth Gate contained fifty-three bricks.   
It was not merely his troubled mind that had driven him to roam past familiar sights. He missed his home in Ithilien, set in the center of a newborn land. The town in Emyn Arnen lacked the busy activity of the White City; it was peaceful. There were no painful remembrances hidden in its young architecture and still-unfinished towers. Almost a chance to start again, designing and planning something that would live on when all recollection of his name had faded.   
Now, he was needed in his birthplace. Everything about him brought back thoughts from his childhood: of his hopeless mother, a frail whisper of beauty; his grim father, ordering and condescending in the same breath; Boromir, protecting him like a true older brother. So much pain, in those days before the Shadow was defeated. How was he to know that the future was any more promising?   
He directed his hesitant steps towards the eastward wall, hoping for a glimpse of the Pelennor and beyond that, the river. But his interest was riveted by a regretful tune that sounded somewhere further up the road:   
_In bonny Bree I saw a lass_   
_With hair as brown as wood;_   
_And so I said I'll wed this lass_   
_If ever a perian should._   
Faramir shook his head in disbelief. It was undoubtedly the voice of a halfling; an intoxicated one, judging from the awful melody and meter of his song. He glanced around but saw no one.   
_She smacked me and she told me off_   
_With eyes as cold as ice;_   
_But I just kissed that maid and said_   
_I'd make her yet my wife!_   
He winced. It also did not rhyme. He corrected himself: there was a very inebriated hobbit somewhere in his proximity.   
_She kicked me and she pushed me 'round_   
_But I nev'r gave in;_   
_And, lo- behold! She fancied me_   
_And look what jewel I win!_   
Pippin staggered into view, his eyes glassy and his hair disheveled. He squinted at the dark figure in front of him, and a plastered grin slowly spread across his face as he became aware of his surroundings. "My lord! I warn thee that women are vicious serpents. Don't let them take a foothold or they'll smack you with household objects. Like oliphaunts."   
"Peregrin, you are drunk."   
"No, I'm just happy." He lolled his head to one side and tried to balance on a single foot. "The Queen booted me and Merry from her presence rather abruptly, so I needed some way to pass the time. I think I lost him, though."   
"Who?"   
"Merry. Who else? He found some visitors from Rohan and was talking on and on."   
Faramir frowned. "Why did she make you leave?"   
"Who?"   
"The Queen Éowyn. Did your ingenious plot to raise her spirits not proceed as planned?"   
Pippin grimaced; a slightly odd expression, for his reactions seemed to have slowed due to some aftereffect of the alcohol. "Oh, it was all dandy at first. She seemed happier. But then we mentioned something, and she became a little upset. Can't imagine why."   
He eyed the small man suspiciously. That statement did not sound encouraging. "What exactly did you say to her?"   
"Well, Merry and I had been thinking that since Strider's gone, Éowyn really needs someone for her. I wouldn't want Diamond to raise two children on her own. So I just dropped a few hints."   
"Excuse me?"   
"It wasn't that bad!" Pippin cried. "Only a few comments about how the Steward of Gondor is a good man. I can't quite remember what I said. Did you know that bartender gave me three pints for the price of one?"   
Faramir felt a growing horror inside him. The halflings were trying their hand at matchmaking? The White Lady's husband had not even been gone a week, and already they were attempting to interfere. Besides which, she could not still return his affections. That had been eighteen years ago. He loved her, pitying her sorrow and her tragic fate. But it would never come to be. So many things had gone astray; no path led to a simple denouement. The world was not comprised of absolutes, like he had once believed, but millions of in-betweens. Marriage had no place in his life.   
"Peregrin Took, I am ashamed of you. Have you no tact?"   
The hobbit's jaw dropped. "I wasn't alone on this! Sam and Merry came up with the idea too!"   
He sighed. "I can deal with my own problems. I do not need your assistance in any aspect of my existence."   
"That's what they all say. Just wait. One day, you'll thank me, when-"   
A slightly steadier-footed halfling appeared in the distance, screaming and waving his arms. "You stupid Took! You never paid for those drinks!"   
Pippin stuck out his tongue indignantly. "What a niggard. Have a pleasant evening, my dear Steward."   
Faramir slumped against the wall, reminded of his exhaustion. They would be the death of him one day, he was certain.   


~*~**~*~

  
_He was walking without any sense of direction, trudging down the street with unseeing eyes. He did not know why he had left the Hall of Kings, or what reasoning drove him to seek solitude. But something was gnawing at his mind, ever since the King Elessar had revealed the story of his father's death. Not grief so much as confusion. He needed answers, explanations to his rolling disorientation. He needed peace._   
_Faramir found himself taking a familiar path down the eerie Silent Street. His steps echoed strangely, resonating against ancient structures, shrines that bemoaned the mortality of man. Ahead, he saw an enormous pile of stones and rubble lying where had once been the House of Stewards; chaos in the midst of strict order. Reconstruction of the building would not begin for many days._   
_His pace slowed as he neared the wreckage and studied the rock and ash. His father had come here, seeking an end to his line. He had only succeeded in destroying himself. A death of torment and anguish, burning as the scalding flames separated him from the son he had always scorned._   
_Gandalf had spoken truly. Denethor did recognize his love, albeit too late. But it had been a twisted emotion; suppressed for years, then fierce and almost animalistic when it finally emerged. His father's decision had been desperate, the act of a crazed and tremulous mind. It pained Faramir to envision his father in such a way._   
_He sank down on a rough block; uncertainty bore into his thoughts so strongly that he barely noticed the sharp sensation of the jagged corners cutting into his leg. Why had his father done it?_   
_It seemed madness, to separate yourself from the only one you still had to love. And yet there was an odd logic behind it. As Gondorian culture decayed, preservation of the dead became more elaborate, more complex. Mandos's gift was once again a curse. The fallen were locked in graven tombs, embalmed in the likeness of vitality but sleeping in the cold rigor of death. Men tried to save those who were already lost to this world._   
_Perhaps Denethor was right, to erase all remnants of his being. Why hold onto that which is temporary? The body, while the container for one's soul, had a limited purpose. In the fires that ravaged the House of Stewards, his father had been transformed into dust and ash; life returning to its original state. Perhaps his actions, though not right, were not exactly wrong either. Everything was so bewildering._   
_"Your father was a good man."_   
_Faramir turned, slightly shaken by the voice whispering beside him. Elessar smiled apologetically. "I am sorry if I startled you. You seemed lost in your thoughts."_   
_"I was merely trying to resolve some problems. Learning about my father's death has created more questions I have no response to. I just cannot believe what he did."_   
_The King shook his head. "Denethor was strong. Sauron was not able to break him, but he did find ways of influencing the Steward. Hopelessness was his undoing."_   
_Faramir kicked at a pebble with the toe of his boot, and sighed. "I am the only one left. First Boromir, then my father. Actually, my brother's fall was not surprising. He longed for glory, and would have committed any deed for Gondor's augmentation. The temptation of taking Isildur's bane for his own benefit proved to be too great."_   
_"Yes. The Ring's greatest power was in focusing on one's strongest desire and than corrupting it for the Dark Lord's purposes. In Boromir's case, it offered him the chance to be Gondor's savior. But he did redeem himself ere he died."_   
_He looked at the older man and nodded. "Boromir was a hero, in our people's hearts. And in mine. He will never be forgotten."_   
_"I will make sure of that." Elessar fidgeted with his cloak's brooch, then glanced up to stare at Faramir's face. "What would the Ring have promised you?"_   
_"I know not, my lord- doubtless, something out of my reach."_   
_He twisted away from the King's gaze hastily, but those grey eyes raked into his soul with clearer insight than a palantir._   
_And in that moment, he became conscious of one fact: Elessar knew._ _tbc_


	5. Chapter 4

  
Éowyn had always been a sound sleeper. No noise, no commotion could jolt her from her slumber- but Míriel's terrified cries were so loud that she feared the whole City would hear them. She rose unsteadily from her bed and rushed to the cradle, squinting in the chamber's pale glow.   
Her baby was shrieking in frustration, hands clenched into tiny fists and face scrunched up into a look of pure horror. She opened her eyes, large blue orbs as turbulent as the rolling surf, and hiccupped back a wail as she focused on the dark figure bending over her. Éowyn rubbed her tummy concernedly.   
"Another nightmare?"   
The infant blinked slowly. Since her birth, Míriel had been a restless child, waking often from menacing dreams. Perhaps she was afraid of the darkness; during the day, she was quiet and peaceful. But every night, she screamed until someone calmed her and lulled her back to sleep. At first, Elessar had dealt with her, and Éowyn remembered waking to see the King pacing the floor with a small newborn in his arms. He would sing to her in Elvish, or just rock her silently till she drifted off again.   
Éowyn had not been on good speaking terms with him in those last days. After what she had done, he-   
She shook her head, and lifted Míriel up carefully, holding her against her breast. Her daughter grabbed a lock of hair, and tugged resolutely. She tried to loosen it from her grip. "Do not do that. That hurts Mama. Stop."   
Míriel reluctantly released it and gurgled happily.   
"I wish we could get through one night without you rousing the entire household. Your brother was never troubled."   
Éowyn walked towards and window and shifted her arms to let Míriel see out. "It is pretty outside. Nice and bright. Nothing scary at all. The moon makes the shadows go away."   
The baby yawned, and she continued. "Though the sun is better. Much more to do during the day, and in its light there is no darkness at all. Do you like the sun, little Leohta? There is nothing to be scared of when it shines, stronger than the stars above."   
She swung her arms gently. "Do you know how the sun was made? Great Béma was riding his horse when he noticed a jewel glistening in the grass. He picked it up, and tossed it high, high into the heavens- but it stuck to a little diamond. The silver gem told the bigger golden one that he would help her wiggle free- in return for a favor. Instead of the diamond circling the world all the time, they would take shifts. The yellow jewel agreed, and kept to her part of the pact."   
Míriel stuck her fist in her mouth.   
"Did you like the story? Your father could tell much better ones."   
Éowyn turned back towards the cradle. Elessar had loved his daughter greatly- for they had been very similar. Not in appearance, but in other aspects. Míriel made her think of things she otherwise would have forgotten, and her gaze was oddly penetrating for an infant's. And the way she sent her chin resolutely when forcedly carried about by strangers, and suffered patiently through the frightening ordeal of being kissed and cuddled by unfamiliar people; she was her father's child. She showed promises of having a steady temper and noble reserve, and Éowyn knew she would grant dignity and poise to the Telcontar line. At present, Anardil was excitable and rowdy; grief seemed to have added to his unruliness. But Míriel was her comfort, in a way. She gave her a reason to awaken every day.   
She had refused to have children, originally. Why allow such distractions into her planned and orderly life? But Elessar had insisted with undisturbed resolution. She had consented to marry him, and he needed an heir. She might not love him, but she must do everything that was expected of her.   
It had surprised her, the flow of maternal emotions that appeared during her first pregnancy. She wanted these little ones, to care for them and shield them from harm. She did not want to lose them. Motherhood was not the dreaded role she had imagined. Supporting the tiny form in her arms, she felt like she had done something right at last.   
"_Ic freogan eow_," she whispered softly. Her daughter's eyes fluttered, and Éowyn swayed back and forth, humming lightly until she finally dozed back off. Holding her delicately, almost reverently, she placed the baby back in her crib and climbed back into her own bed.   
She was not alone. She had her children to love and nurture. Perhaps the days ahead would not be as painful as she had feared.   
Pulling the covers over her head, she fell back into senseless dreams.   


~*~**~*~

  
Faramir waited till several days after the funeral before paying his respects to the widowed Queen. As Steward, custom dictated that he visit Éowyn and offer his condolences over the death of her husband. But every time he prepared to set out, he found himself sidetracked by insignificant issues, silly things that could have been postponed. Perhaps he did not want to go through with it. Fulfilling tradition was all very well, but why comfort a grieving woman with the same redundant, trite statements as everyone else? He would rather break social mores and leave Éowyn to her solitary company than cause her any more pain.   
However, it must be done. He walked to the King's House slowly, trying to collect his thoughts and formulate phrases that would heal and not hurt. But he was not about to yield to the halflings' insinuations. He would speak with her and attempt to lessen her sadness, but he would not make any declarations. On any subjects.   
He would not use words like "your loss" or "Elessar's unfortunate demise." He remembered dull Gondorian officials speaking of his father's death as _such a sad turn of events_; it was not sad, nor a series of incidents. Denethor had given into despair and killed himself: a depressing affair that could not be summed up with a few stale words. He would not subject her to such banal language.   
But how to express his sorrow? How to show her that he truly cared for her well-being, and was not merely calling for convention's sake?   
No preplanned speech could accomplish that task. He must be honest, and convey the emotions he harbored inside. He would speak from his heart.   
"If you are seeking my mama, she is not here."   
Faramir glanced down to see Anardil standing before him, an expression of cautious interest on his small face. He looked oddly like Elessar in that instant, his grey eyes searching and studying intently. "Can you tell me how long before the Queen returns?"   
The boy shook his head. "I do not know. I think she had a meeting with some of the Rohirrim staying in the City. She should return soon."   
Faramir prepared to turn away when he felt a little hand tugging at his sleeve. "Since you will be waiting-"   
He nodded encouragement. "Yes?"   
"My friend Beren- he is the son of one of the guards of the Citadel- taught me a game. Where one person hides and the other must find where they are. But mama will not let him come play, for our family is in mourning." Anardil sighed. "I have had nothing to do. I do not think that the creators of proper mourning behavior considered how dull it is for boys like me. Could you play with me till mama comes back?"   
In Anardil's somberly pleading gaze, Faramir caught a glimpse of Éowyn, begging for death in battle. He might resemble Elessar, but his character was clearly that of the White Lady's. Bold and blunt, facing a problem directly with little outward indications of his fear.   
Faramir knew the ache of grief. His mother had died when he was five.   
Memories surfaced of the days after Finduilas's passing: Denethor had refused to see him, and forbade him from going beyond the courtyard. But Boromir had been there. His brother had amused him, and helped him overcome pain and confusion with silly contests: climbing the statue of Mardil without being discovered by the guards, building ships out of parchment, and creating stories about Faramir's stuffed rabbit. They were childish things, but he still remembered the compassion and the empathy Boromir had shown him in those dark times.   
Was not Anardil in a similar situation? His father was gone, and his mother hiding her misery behind black dress and thick veil. Faramir could not ease all his sorrow, but he could raise the boy's spirits for a few moments. He smiled.   
"I would never refuse the Prince. Shall I count to one hundred?" _tbc_


	6. Chapter 5

**AN- **Sorry for the long delay in-between updates! I had an attack by Darth RL, which caused me to put this story aside for a bit. But hopefully, my life will be trouble-free long enough for me to finish this story. There's about 5 chapters remaining to be written, plus a large appendix, then this will be complete.

And yes, Éowyn is a bit of an annoying sod in the second half of this. But I couldn't help it – she _really_ wanted to be a sod, I guess. Enjoy! And thanks for clicking.

* * *

"Éomer King located part of the company of orcs, milady. But the rest appear to have disappeared into the mountains."

Éowyn frowned, and flicked at the corner of her veil distractedly. "Did he not search near the fords of Isen? Bandits have sought refuge there before."

Gamling shook his head. An old man during the war of the Ring, he was now ancient by Rohan standards. He walked with two canes, and his face was creased and lined with thousands of tiny wrinkles. But though his body was failing, his mind remained strong. Éomer had years past appointed him an unofficial ambassador to the Gondorian court, in honor of his heroic deeds at Helm's Deep. However, he retained the position because of his straightforwardness and honesty. Éowyn liked the man; he never shied away from voicing his opinion. Gamling provided a helpful perspective on all topics.

"He did. My son's son," he stated, gesturing to a youngish Rider seated among a group of soldiers in the tavern's far corner, "tells me that King Éomer pursued his hunt from the Entwine to north of Isengard. He believes he found only half of the ambush group. I am sorry, milady."

"Tell my brother that he must not cease the chase so quickly. I am certain that if he continued, he would discover the remainder of the party."

Gamling frowned. "Milady, is that necessary? Vengeance will not resurrect the King."

She sat up straighter. "Do not speak nonsense. But should not his murderers pay for their crime? If I allow evil to roam free with no retribution, who knows what may happen next?"

"It was a twist of fate. A sorrowful event, but one still out of our control. Milady, do not become possessed with the desire for revenge. Lord Elessar would not have wished you to act so."

Éowyn tilted her chin downwards and let the delicate fabric shield her face. She had learned that such movements hid her expression from others; it was useful to conceal her pain. She must not look weak. "It was my fault, Gamling. If I had not insisted-"

"No," he cut in. "You did not cause his death. The King knew the dangers of that road, and chose to take it. You should be thankful that the rest of your family survived."

She sighed. "I was always urging him along perilous paths. Glory was foremost in my thoughts; I wanted his name to be renowned, and mine through association. I sacrificed happiness for celebrity. I should never have left Rohan."

Gamling took her hand in his work-hardened one and patted it consolingly. "We all make mistakes. Some more serious than others. But that is no reason for you to wallow in self-pity. Release your grief, instead of caging it inside. Even the bravest warriors may cry."

"I have tried - around the children - to be strong. But I do not know how to comfort them. Anardil is so restless, and it is difficult to speak with him. Gamling, how could you continue on after your wife's death?"

He lowered his head. "It was . . . difficult. I never thought Yrs would leave us so suddenly. At first, it was very painful. How could I survive without her? She had left behind five children, and our youngest was barely twelve years of age. I was not used to raising them, for often I had ridden with the Company assigned to the Westfold while she remained at home. There were times when I wished our places could have been exchanged.

"But I began to look at life one day at a time. Harvest time, then wintertide, then spring - my memories of her remained, but the ache lessened. It did not hurt as much to think of the past. We must always look ahead, milady, but never glance too far into the future. Concentrate on the present. Your love for him will always stay, but as the years increase the pain will begin to fade away."

Éowyn was prepared to correct him when she paused. Why say anything? Why tell anyone the true reason for her elaborate mourning and solemnity - so that no one would discover her feelings towards her husband? She did not love; most likely, she never had. But she would respect him, and show the proper courtesies. She rose quietly and released Gamling's hand. "Thank you for your kind words. I will not forget them."

He nodded gravely. "May you and your children be blessed, Queen."

She left the little building at a quick stride and hurried back to the Citadel. Anardil had been alone for nearly two hours, and she dreaded what damage he could have caused in so long a time. Her skirt trailed against the rough pavement, gathering pale dust on its dark hem. She grabbed a handful of the thick muslin with a gloved hand and held it higher as she marched into the King's Hall.

Silence.

That was strange. She had expected riotous noise and ear-piercing war cries. Meriadoc and Peregrin had taught her son the most irritating screams several days ago. But there was nothing, not even the sound of footsteps.

Éowyn crept towards her chamber softly. Perhaps Míriel was taking her afternoon nap. Then one of her waiting women might have consigned Anardil to the courtyard for play; however, she had not seen him. She turned the corner and nearly collided with a tall man hiding behind the doorway. Her veil twisted sideways, her foot caught on a loose stone, she staggered backwards - he grabbed her arm and steadied her as she regained her balance.

"Milady, are you hurt?"

She blinked and looked up dizzily. It was Faramir. "Lord Steward. I am not injured. May I ask, though, what you are doing in my chambers?"

He smiled. "The Prince requested I play a game with him." He motioned towards a shaking, sniggering curtain. "Excuse me one moment."

Éowyn sank down into a chair in the corner and watched mutely. The drapery continued to move and quake, then a small black head peeked out from the side. She waved; Faramir looked around the room, perplexed, and searched under a table. "My Queen, I cannot seem to find him."

The laughing increased, and Faramir winked. She bit her lip in an attempt to not giggle and pointed towards the cradle. "Have you tried over there, Lord Steward?"

"I do not think the Prince desires to become an infant again, milady. Perhaps . . ."

He pulled back the curtain, and Anardil jumped out happily. "I would never have thought!"

Éowyn stood and took her son's hand possessively. "Now, that is enough fun for one day. Go to your lessons. What did you wish to speak with me of, Lord Faramir?"

Faramir straightened, and resumed a serious expression. "I have come to offer my extreme condolences on the death of your husband, milady. In a time of such sorrow, I think it right that I-"

She held up a hand. "Excuse me, milord, but first I must thank you. So much. Anardil has been - for the past fortnight - almost intolerable. You have made him happy. And please, let us speak outside. I cannot bear this darkness any more."

* * *

_Éowyn smiled bitterly to herself as she watched her brother stomp across the ramparts of the Houses of Healing towards her. His attire was elegant and kingly; his demeanor greatly lacking in noble patience. Éomer slowed to a halt beside her, then leaned his arms across the wall as he studied the fields below._

"_I thought that the Warden had granted you leave to return to Meduseld."_

"_He did. But I prefer this House, for those within do not force me to partake in celebrations of which I hold no interest."_

_His gaze shifted from the Pelennor to the garden behind them, and he frowned. "The people of the Mark place you in great esteem. You disappoint them by remaining in Gondor."_

_She set her lips firmly. "There is nothing for me in Edoras. You know why the King has sent for you?"_

"_When I arrived in Minas Tirith this morn, he summoned me to the King's Hall and announced his intentions. Do you grant them full willing?"_

"_I do."_

"_Sister, I do not understand. You wish to accept his hand?"_

_Éowyn nodded. "Must I repeat it again? You grow slower, not swifter in your old age, brother."_

_He ignored the mild affront and turned his attention towards her. "I did not expect such news. Elessar was betrothed to the Lady Arwen mere weeks ago. Think not ill of me if I say that such a proposal seems rash."_

"_Rash? In what way?"_

"_Do not have to adopt pretenses with me, Éowyn. Before the Battle of the Morannon, the King and I spoke of these matters. It would be folly for you to wed him, for neither of you feel anything towards the other. You deserve more than a loveless marriage."_

_She ground her palms together and assumed an expression of forced composure. "Ah, but you forget. I am a shieldmaiden, a passive resident in a lonely house. Becoming Queen of Gondor might perhaps be an improvement over my current situation."_

"_I speak no jest. If not love, then what may Elessar offer you in matrimony?"_

"_The sustaining power of a fame that extends beyond our own people; the dream of allowing my name and legacy to live on past the faulty memory of the Riddermark. I love our homeland, brother, but if I stay in Rohan I resign myself to an unfulfilled life."_

_Éomer's eyes shifted from an open blue to cold, unflinching ice. "I have never heard such absurdity before. Renown and celebrity are lofty goals, but I would not consider them the most important of achievements. Love for one's family, one's people, one's country: that should be foremost in one's heart. I would have thought that your experiences during the Battle of Pelennor Fields would have caused you to realize that."_

"_You cannot even imagine what I learned during the war," she said, pointing towards the ground far below. "Life is far too short to waste it dreaming about futile ideals. You know what the people of Gondor call the Rohirrim, Éomer? 'A lesser race.' Twill not be long before we join our Uncle under the simbelmynë. I want to seize any chance at immortality, even if 'tis only the possibility of having my name preserved in the Annals of the Kings. I may not be eternally blissful as the Queen of Gondor, but at least I will be remembered."_

"_Not all greatness bears a title. If you wed Elessar, your name may not be forgotten, but what of your character? Recollection may be negative as well."_

_Éowyn turned back towards the house. "Do you wish to hinder my decision, then?"_

_He shook his head, his eyes slowly softening. "No. If you truly wish to be trothplighted to the King, I will not interfere. However, I believe you should not rush into this marriage impetuously. Fate has a reason for everything that occurs, and I do not necessarily feel that the death of Lady Arwen should lead to this arrangement."_

"_Pardon me if I disagree. Moreover," she stated, studying the blossoms on a nearby flowering tree, "there is absolutely nothing to prevent me from accepting his offer."_

tbc


End file.
